Metamorphosis or Kafka as a Parisien woman scorn

Fast French women=slow motion matrix mamma to this brown eyed American boy in tow, each movement split into 7 micro seconds, 7 hands slapping, you have to rewind your mind in the evening.

Sexual energy sparking off her, I turn to shield myself in the smile of a simple stranger with a hat that say $f sparking our scheduled dialog of traveler’s tales and fond memory.

Fast French Woman=thief of sweet $F hat stranger’s boy friend while she was in SF, getting her hat.

Later, by later I mean day’s later in a squat party, I cross Fast French Woman, telling me $f hat too is there, dressed like a Nazi Harlot to reclaim her man.

$f sent the needle scratching, clicking static in the mind of men, raw sexuality showering passersby.

Takeover not makeover, how did she transform into this “blonde” nietzschean beast skulking in the bowels of this Parisian squat.

Sure she got her guy back, but to what avail, what woman reclaimed him?

Later with my lens i searched the beast, or maybe just breasts, finding neither

Frumpy French girl fragility tucked away, gone the animal who lives with in us all?

Vive La France



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